The Little Things
by mrscribble
Summary: It's the little things that make all the difference. RemusTonks, One-shot.


Again, I own nothing, because if I did, I'd probably be on a beach with ten attendants to serve me drinks all day long, and I wouldn't be writing lousy fanfics.

Oh, the horror. Yet another one-shot R/T fanfic, written in a style similar to Sweet. Now, onwards to the story!

**The Little Things**

In Muggle London, the day is fresh and clean. The sun smiles broadly from the clear cerulean sky, highlighting the tints of delicate pink and orange on the undersides of the few clouds hovering above the earth. The morning is yet to be spoiled.

As the sun begins his rounds of a high arc in the sky, one of his dazzling rays falls upon a small Muggle-run cafe, on the side of a quaint cobbled street. The small coffee shop is elegant in its simplicity; there is an open doorway and a large window emblazoned with the words _Miss Paddy's Best Coffee_ on the outside of a stone wall, which leads into a small, but snug, light-filled interior, with booths and tables alike. In one corner of the cafe is a counter, with a jolly, plump woman behind it, cleaning coloured coffee mugs, all colours of the spectrum.  
As it opens into the street, there is a large roped-off area, with white tables and chairs carefully arranged to make the best of the limited space. In the center of each table, there is a glass vase of brightly-coloured fresh flowers along with the drink and dessert menu, a beautiful homely touch.

At this time of morning, there are not many people in the cafe; the street is comfortably quiet. Most of the coffee shop's customers have chosen to stay outside in the crisp, clean air. A group of giggling middle-age women sit in a corner of the area, gossiping and sipping at their mid-morning coffees; a few couples sit at the tables set for two. A man reading the newspaper sits alone in the corner opposite from the group of women, his paper rustling slightly as he reaches for his tea.  
At first glance, each couple is the same as the others. However, one pair looks slightly different. A young woman with short, shockingly violet hair and sporting a black t-shirt with the words _Witch Witch is Witch?_ scrawled in indigo across the chest, worn jeans and combat boots, sits in quiet companionship with a middle-aged man with greying brown hair, wearing a threadbare, but neat, dark burgundy jumper over grey trousers. They chat about trivial, light-hearted things, like the weather, politics, and how lovely the pst few days have been. They drink hot chocolate and they snack on chocolate chip biscuits.  
They're different, though. For some reason, they stand out from the crowd. Perhaps it's the difference in their ages or their styles. Perhaps it's the way they look, or the way they talk. One prefers to think, though, that it is simply the little things that separate them from the crowd.

The little things, like the tender way he places his hand over hers, and how gently she rubs the top of his weathered hands. The little things, like her dark, kind twinkling eyes, or the simple way his silver-streaked hair catches the light. The little things, like how he stiffens whenever the cocky young waiter passes by, winking at his pretty companion, or how she rolls her eyes as one of the women sitting in the corner twirls her hair around one finger, batting her eyelashes at him and giggling.  
It's the little things, though, that make all the difference. Like, it's almost strange, how the pair carry themselves; for one so young, the purple-haired woman laughs with a seasoned grace. The man, on the other hand, talks quietly, with a weathered sort of tiredness. They know more, have seen more, than the people around them. It's always the little things which make people stand out.

At just a passing glance, though, they seem the same as the others. The hurrying workers, dashing up the street, don't stop and look, they don't smell the fresh air or feel the breezes ruffling their hair. They don't slow down to think about the little things, the little details, they rush along, thinking they've already seen it all before. It's odd, you know, how the little things are lost in favour of the big things, the big picture. If you didn't notice the small things, how would you get the big picture complete and correct? If you missed a few stitches on a beautiful tapestry, how would the whole tapestry look full and soft and right?  
If you stop, just slow down life for a second or two, to watch the young woman and the middle-aged man, you can see how beautiful and perfect their relationship is. You can see the little things that make them see each other. You can see how her hand is always next to his, seeking the closeness of _touch_. You can see how their eyes always lock as one of them speaks, seeking the recognition of_ look_. You can see the deepness of his breaths, seeking the reassurance of _smell_; you can watch the way they listen to each other, seeking the simple pleasure of _hear_.

Really, it's just the little things that bind those two together, the little things, that make them seem just so right. The little things, like the complete, unbroken understanding between the two. The little things, like the way the look at each other, the little things, like how they sip their cooling hot chocolate. Perhaps it's simply the way they seem to be in perfect synchronised _rhythm_; the way she laughs, he smiles, they talk, they listen. The little things.

_Just like how much they're in love._


End file.
